I went to breakfast and, mercifully there was no sign of Manny. That is, until halfway through my meal when I heard him loudly making his entrance, talking to everyone and saying nothing. Fortunately he didn’t try to fill the empty seat across from me, but merely said ‘G’day, mate’ and then disappeared outside while I took the opportunity to make like a tree and get out of there. The night before, I had calculated that a flight from Sydney to Gladstone was very doable, and had purchased a ticket. If I returned to Australia from New Zealand, I would fly to Sydney and take the train to Melbourne, or if that didn’t work there was always the train from London to Stornoway in the distant future. The point is that the train trip could wait. An hour and a half in the air and I could feasibly arrive at my destination by that afternoon.
I packed everything up and decided to take the ferry to the train to the airport; the exact reverse of my arrival route. I checked out, lugged my luggage down the long stairway, took in a breath, and stepped out onto the street. At that moment, as if on cue, a man pulled up in front of me in a car. At first I thought it was a cabbie hoping for a fare, but it turned out to be none other than Manny. He asked where I was going. I said I was going to the wharf and nodded down the hill. (Now on reflection, he could have been offering me a ride, or asking how I had decided to make my trip, but honestly I just wanted to disengage and be on my way.) He sort of shrugged, sighed okay, and drove off, never to be seen again. It reminded me of a scene from The Money Pit where, in two different scenes, a dishonest plumber and an unappealing carpenter drive away from Tom Hanks kicking up dust and blaring I Gotta Be Me on their car stereos. I could almost hear Sammy Davis Junior’s rendition of the song as Manny’s car vanished around the corner. I like to think he wasn’t a real person, but a method actor trying out a character he’d created and fallen in love with.
A ferry and a train ride later and I was back at the Sydney airport. Here again I faced the dreaded automatic passport consoles. It actually went better, but this time there was the added challenge of an automatic luggage machine. One had to affix a pair of printed luggage tags printed from the passport machine. The pieces were then automatically weighed and placed on a conveyor at which point my luggage vanished behind a curtain (in all likelihood never to be seen again). But the people there assured me it was a flawless system. That is until I stepped through the security check and an announcement came over the PA system saying that there was a slight problem with the automated luggage machine, not to worry, and that it might be better to check all luggage manually instead of using the automated system. I got into the terminal and took a look around, trying to decide on a spot to write and read as I prepared to kill two hours while waiting for my flight.
Then I got a text.
Due to the bush fires and the havoc they were wreaking on airports and flights, I had been rebooked on another plane to Brisbane and would now have to kill a total of five hours at the airport. But at least the airline had taken care of everything, so all I had to do was find a comfortable place to sit. I ordered a short white coffee and the biggest croissant I had ever seen and settled in.
I spent some time with John Carter among the Martians and then some time recording my own adventures in written form for the blog. At one point I noticed a tired-looking Asian mother and her young son. They had been roaming around the airport for over two hours and had now found a seat in the cafe. I was very impressed with how well behaved the boy was, and so, perhaps as an expression of approval or a desire to do something nice for someone, bought him a small set of Star Wars figures (something that usually goes against deeply held beliefs.) The mother was surprised, but they both said thank you and he set about to playing with his new acquisitions as I went back to my table and blog. Soon thereafter the time came to find my way to the boarding gate.
Now when I had been issued my new plane ticket, it had come with some extra questions. I had been placed in a bulkhead row and before accepting the seat I had to agree that I was strong enough and capable enough to open the door and help others to escape in the event of an accident. When we finally boarded, I was a little horrified to find a frail old lady sitting next to the emergency hatch by the window. I got comfortable and hoped for the best.
The flight to Brisbane was fine and the food they gave us was plentiful even though it was only an hour flight. We landed in Brisbane and I found my way to the gate from which the next plane was to leave for Gladstone, which, oddly, was on the ground level. When our plane arrived, it was a tiny propeller plane. I was thankful to catch sight of the luggage I was sure I would never see again being towed past on a cart. Then we boarded.
On this trip I found myself seated next to an older man, whom I studied curiously. He wore jeans with boots and a short sleeved, plaid, button down shirt. His hair was gray, his face care-worn, and his skin sunburned and mottled with spots and blotches. He looked like the sort of dusty men I had always seen in old Norman Rockwell paintings set during the 50s. He could only have been a farmer.
He said his name was Dan and he was returning from Brisbane. While he did indeed own a farm and some cattle, he was also a government sponsored advocate for workplace health and safety. He gave me a testimonial card. He and his wife had lost their 20 year old son when he was electrocuted while working on a line that a school whose system he was repairing refused to shut off the power while he did the work. It was a simple matter of having a kill switch to prevent such a thing from happening and the school hadn’t seen the need for one. Now he traveled from place to place to speak at different companies and institutions to underscore the need for such measures to be installed. He was very friendly, but had the subdued sadness of someone who is still processing a loss years after the fact.
Once night had fallen, we landed at the tiny Gladstone airport. I had been in contact with a sister named Fiona Craig and, once I had bought a ticket to Gladstone, and had been keeping her apprised of the changing arrival times. The plan was that the her mob would collect me from the airport. I had been following the Craig mob on Instagram for over a year, and now I was to meet the people I had watched from afar for so long.
I sincerely hoped I would make a good impression.
